


The Art of the Selfie

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: HaiKise Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:18:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shougo, as usual, bites off more than he can chew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of the Selfie

It happens every day. Shougo steps out of the shower, shaking himself half-dry and then wraps the blue towel (purchased at some tacky tourist shop on a spontaneous trip to the beach) around his waist. He runs a hand through his hair, flicking it needlessly back from his forehead (because it hasn’t been long enough to cover his eyes in too many years) and then pushes open the bathroom door and scowls at the bedroom. Well, it’s not the bedroom he’s mad at, it’s what Ryouta’s doing in it.

He’s wearing that stupid fluffy bathrobe that is a waste of valuable closet space (and after all, between both of their shares of crap the closets are overflowing) because Ryouta won’t get into it until he’s already completely dry and he’s been hogging the bathroom for the past hour, pretending not to hear Shougo’s knocks over the loudness of the hair dryer—and that’s before he puts on all his fucking makeup, too. And he’s got his face full of foundation and mascara and whatever the fuck else he wears (and he’s explained it all to Shougo several times over, but Shougo’s eyes just glaze over because he doesn’t understand the need for twenty different expensive products when Ryouta’s already so goddamn pretty that he doesn’t need winged eyeshadow or whatever the fuck that stuff is—it’s not that he doesn’t still look hot with the makeup on, but it’s a different kind of hot that just seems unnecessary but Shougo supposes that’s just the way Ryouta is, presenting the processed version of himself to the masses along with the processed version of his face). And this isn’t even about the makeup or the bathrobe or why he’s still sitting on the bed; it’s not about primping in front of his reflection (because if Shougo’s being entirely honest he does it sometimes, too) but it’s because his computer is open in front of him and he knows from the pose that Ryouta’s taking another fucking picture of himself like he does every goddamn morning in the same pose.

Shougo flops down on the bed next to him and Ryouta turns to glare.

“You messed up my angle.”

“Maybe you should take it from a different angle. Try something new. Take a picture of something that’s not yourself.”

“My fans want to see me! It’s part of marketing myself, Shougo-kun. You should try it; maybe people would like you better.”

Shougo reaches over to shove Ryouta. “What, like the few people who have shitty enough taste to follow you?”

Ryouta scoots over, away from Shougo, and adjusts the angle of the laptop camera again. “For your information, all of my posts are extremely well-received. I wouldn’t be doing this every day if people didn’t keep liking all my posts.”

“But they’re all the same!”

“This is my best angle.”

Shougo rolls his eyes—either Ryouta doesn’t see or he pretends not to. “I think a real photographer would know that. You know, like the ones who get paid to photograph you. Taking a picture of yourself is really dumb.”

“Just because you look stupid in your selfies—”

“I don’t take selfies,” says Shougo. “And I would look great if I did—well, as good as anyone can look in a selfie.”

Ryouta smiles brightly at the laptop camera and clicks. As soon as the picture appears on the screen, he sighs.

“Shougo-kun. The average person with an average camera phone or laptop today can take one with the same quality as the one I can with my camera phone or laptop and post it on the same websites. They don’t need fancy camera equipment or expensive photographers or hard-to-use software to touch things up or to pay for a photo book to be printed. It makes me accessible, and it makes them feel like I’m a little bit more relatable, that I’m just like them. And it keeps them thinking about me and it raises my brand recognition and earning power, because they’re more likely to recognize me in advertisements and buy the products.”

That does make a modicum of sense—not much, though. “But regular people have friends to take pictures for them. Why don’t you get your agent or someone to do it?”

“Are you volunteering?”

* * *

 

“Shougo-kun, the angle’s all wrong.”

“What do you mean? I think you look pretty; you can see your eyes and your mouth is doing that smile thing—you fishing for compliments or something?”

“No. You have to get me from the right side.”

“But you look better on the left.”

“This picture is going on my Instagram account, not yours.”

“Do you argue this much with the photographers on set?”

Ryouta sniffs, flattening his hair and repositioning himself, motioning for Shougo to go to the right—and Shougo does, because letting Ryouta have this is a small concession compared to taking this same damn picture over and over again. And all things considered, playing photographer is probably the solution that lets him escape with the most of his pride—not that it’s much, accompanying his famous model boyfriend on his daily errands and taking pictures of him instead of lolling about in bed and then maybe working out.  
“You know you don’t look that much less like a loser if I’m taking these pictures of you alone.”

Ryouta laughs. “I don’t take all of my selfies alone, which you’d know if you ever listened to me or looked at my social media pages.”

Shougo rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t change the fact that most of them are just you, alone, taking a picture of yourself.”

Ryouta grabs his hand. “Let’s go get coffee.”

Well, okay, maybe this part of the day won’t be so bad—if this was Ryouta just really passive-aggressively asking for a date, well, Shougo can live with that.

* * *

 

Of course, it isn’t really; Ryouta makes Shougo take a picture in the poorly-lit coffee shop of him and his drink, and fusses over that one for ages and all the ice in Shougo’s drink is melted by the time they get out. And then they go to the bank and to a meeting with Ryouta’s agent and then downtown, just to see and be seen, with many stops along the way for a photo op (and sometimes it’s with fans, and then Shougo has to take pictures with their phones, too, and he should really fucking get paid for this).

The sun is low in the sky, too early and too hot like it always is this late in the summer, and they sit and eat their takeout dinner at the edge of the fountain. Shougo’s arms are sore from holding up the phone and he’d really like to fall asleep right now. He settles for leaning against Ryouta (and no matter how much he whines he’s definitely strong enough to hold him up) and closing his eyes, letting the sun touch his face.

“You win. Take all the selfies you want. I don’t care.”

“Aww, Shougo-kun.”

“Shut up.”

Ryouta kisses him on the cheek—and then Shougo hears a click. He opens his eyes.

Ryouta’s smiling at his phone, jabbing at the screen. It’s too bright for Shougo to see what’s on it, but he can figure it out.

“Did you just take a picture?”

“Yup,” says Ryouta. “You just gave me the okay.”

“I didn’t say me, too.”

Ryouta waves his hand. “Whatever.”

Shougo’s way too tired to try and grab at Ryouta’s phone, and he’s already done what he’s going to do, so Shougo leans back against his shoulder and closes his eyes again.

“No, Shougo-kun, look.”

Shougo cracks open one eye. Ryouta’s turned up the brightness so Shougo can see the screen. It’s some kind of social media post. “A big thank you to today’s photographer!” it reads, along with some little faces and a tiny camera icon. Ryouta scrolls down, and there’s the picture; Shougo’s head is on Ryouta’s shoulder and Ryouta’s smiling and kissing his cheek. It does look kind of cute, if you’re into all that sappy romantic shit.

“Well?”

Shougo shrugs. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
